


Bis meine Welt zerfiel

by ellenoruschka



Series: Viva Verona [3]
Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Boris Pfeifer as Escalus, Cancer, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Chess Metaphors, Confessional, Friar Lawrence is a cinnamon roll, Frédéric Charter as friar Lawrence, Gen, Medieval Medicine, Oh and Also, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Uwe Kröger as Death, Valentine is worried, he deserves so much more screen time than I gave him, mentions of Mercutio, poor Escalus is suffering, so I guess it gives us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka/pseuds/ellenoruschka
Summary: “You have beaten me more than once, oh my noble Escalus. But the time of my victory has finally come."





	Bis meine Welt zerfiel

**Author's Note:**

> The title is in German and can be translated as "Until my world shattered". It is a quotation from the Austrian version of RetJ.
> 
> This is my own translation of my Russian fanfic.  
> The original of this text is published here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6661930  
> The story falls into the continuity of "Dunkles Verona" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503138) which is the second part of this collection.
> 
> Faceclaims:  
> \- Boris Pfeifer as Escalus: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp4gvpxnTvA (Verona)  
> \- Uwe Kröger as der Tod/Death: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9hFnlJIMNY (Die Schatten werden länger)  
> \- Frédéric Charter as friar Lawrence: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzFdpQhCle8 (J'sais plus)

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

A familiar formula, a familiar situation; over the fifty-five endless years of his life Escalus has been to confession countless times. Getting down on his knees is now much more difficult than before, though, and this autumn’s strong winds and cold rains do not help a single bit. Yet here he is again, in the darkness of the church; and again there is an intricately embroidered curtain separating him from the invisible priest – a superfluous barrier, for anyone in Verona can easily recognize their prince’s voice. Head bowed, hands clasped, Escalus is kneeling, motionless, at the confessional.

Everything is as it should be.

But outside the church, night reigns supreme. Were the sky not hidden behind heavy clouds, an almost full moon would be adorning it; but it is pitch black, and the winds of November are howling like wolves, and icy water pours down on the city, lashing out at walls and pavements mercilessly. No good master would let even the worst of his dogs outside in such weather – but Escalus is not a good master. Never has he spared himself; and as for his subjects… The days of his mercy are long gone, but so are the reasons for cruelty – even though it came at a terrible price.

“May God be in your heart,” a familiar soft voice from behind the curtain stops the train of his thoughts. Escalus closes his eyes in fond exasperation: friar Lawrence, of course, who else would be here on such a night?..

He sighs and begins to speak.

***

By the time the confession is over the prince loses almost all feeling in his knees and the lone candle beside him turns into a stump with a tiny flickering flame on top; but absolution brings no relief. Escalus leans against the wall to stand up, but the attempt of movement causes an unexpectedly sharp pain to flare out in his whole body. Numb legs give out, and instead of clambering to his feet as intended, the prince collapses with a guttural groan. The world is blurring around him, and there are church bells ringing in his ears; Escalus barely feels someone’s strong hands grab him and practically carry him over to the nearest bench.

“My prince?” friar Lawrence sounds frightened. Oh, as if it is not obvious: age, father, age is catching up… Escalus would laugh if he could, but it is too painful, too hard; and instead of laughter he only moans hoarsely. His head aches as well; did he hit it during the fall? Or is it the cursed migraine again? No, God, please, not that, not here…

“I’m… I am fine… good father,” he breathes out, looking up at the priest’s worried face and making no attempt to stand up, well aware that any real movement is beyond him now. “I tha… thank you.”

“Stay seated, my prince, I shall fetch some water,” and he hears the friar shuffle away hurriedly. Escalus has no idea when he has closed his eyes, but he certainly does not want to open them again, even though it is dark in the church. An invisible force is pressing his heavy, uncooperative body into the bench; it takes an enormous effort even to do something as simple as breathe; and there is an intense ache pulsing at the nape of his neck. Not because of the fall, he remarks absently. Falling forward, he could have hit his forehead, or temple, or even the top of his head – but not the back of it; and yet that is where the pain is located – torturous, merciless… and oh so familiar! How many times has he gone to bed and woken up with that sharp pulsation that drapes a hazy mist over his eyes and rings through his skull like a bronze church bell?..

Something cool is touching his lips; friar Lawrence must have brought water. Eyes still closed, Escalus forces himself to swallow the refreshing liquid; and the soft drag of a wet cloth across his face brings even more relief. The priest helps him undo the strict collar of his doublet, and breathing becomes less strenuous. Maybe he even could try opening his eyes again…

A cold, otherworldly presence washes over him seconds before a familiar ghostly silhouette appears in the shadows, just behind friar Lawrence. Hair golden like a moon halo, a face too beautiful to be human, icy blue eyes… body cloaked by swirls of darkness so deep that the priest’s black robe seems dull grey against them. 

So that’s how it is.

“You are exhausted, my prince,” friar Lawrence frowns reproachfully, bringing the cup back to his lips, oblivious of the frightening presence beside him. “You need rest.”

“I will rest in peace after death claims me, holy father,” yes, the cheerful irony of his wayward, beloved, long-dead nephew is hardly what one would expect from the proud prince; but what else has he to say?.. 

The otherworldly creature smiles thinly, appreciating the humour. 

“If you continue to torture yourself with work like that, death will claim you sooner that you expect. My son… my prince,” the friar stumbles, “you should think of yourself.”

The ghostly guest floats closer, lowering himself down on the bench next to Escalus. Bone-deep chill emanates from him, and as his icy fingers touch the other man’s neck in a half-forgotten gesture, the prince shudders unwillingly. 

“You have beaten me more than once, oh my noble Escalus,” the creature’s voice is a familiar frightening rustle next to his ear. “But the time of my victory has finally come. Your game is over; come, it is time to let new players take up the chessmen.”

Escalus forces himself to nod – though he is not sure whether it is aimed at the ghost, or friar Lawrence, or both of them… His shirt is undone, and a palm colder than ice slips under the fabric, trailing across his chest, his ribcage, his sunken stomach; a twisted parody of a caress, a bizarre contrast to the feeling of a warm wet cloth against his face and neck. His body is shivering from the cold and a strange, nameless sensation more akin to anticipation than fear. 

“My… my good fa… ther,” his own voice refuses to obey him, but Escalus still manages to cough out several syllables, “do not… worry about me. I have already lived longer than I had dared to hope.”

Friar Lawrence watches him with a pained expression, but dares not argue and merely lays his hand atop the other man's brow, sticky with cold sweat. He knows very well that the prince speaks the truth.

***

Escalus was dying.

No one dared say that aloud, of course. Actually, very few people possessed the knowledge of the sickness that had been ailing him for almost two years. To the whole city, the prince was still an imperious, invulnerable omnipresence; his arms remained as strong, his back as straight and his step as sure as ever. But those who knew him well were able to see what that impossible man was hiding behind the impermeable façade. 

Pain.

The migraines came some fifteen years after Mercutio's death. Escalus was nearing his fifty-third birthday and still had no heir but his once youngest, and now only, nephew. At twenty-eight years of age, sober, sensible, and politically minded, Valentine was going to make a perfect ruler, and Escalus reveled in readying the young man to his future duties. Both were sure that the prince would stay at his post for at least another decade; and yet, something urged Escalus on.  


July and August were unusually hot that year. The sun, it seemed, had decided to burn Verona to the ground, and people tended to stay indoors as much as possible, hiding from the merciless shining orb in the relative coolness of the innermost rooms. So naturally, when a persistent headache made the nape of his neck its home and would not leave it for days on end, Escalus blamed the weather for his discomfort and tried to work around it, patiently waiting for the heat to subside. 

His night guest’s visits grew increasingly rare until they stopped altogether; at first it troubled the prince, but then he realized he had no energy to spend on the fruitless worry. He was using up all his strength to manage the city, teach Valentine and battle against the persistent migraines, which he was trying to hide from everyone.

Autumn brought strong winds and cool rains, but no relief – not to the prince. If anything, his headaches were only getting stronger and harder to ignore. A dull pain developed in his right eye, too, and his eyes would tear up sometimes, if the lights were too bright. Sometimes he would feel nauseated from the smell of food, and overly loud sounds felt like hammers clanging inside his skull. Escalus began to spend more and more time ensconced in the quiet darkness of his study, trying to work as efficiently as ever and scaring the whole household by his detachment and bad appetite.

As spring came, his worried nephew insisted on inviting a physician; and the fact that Escalus agreed to the idea frightened the young man even more. Never before had the prince needed medical attention enough to seek it willingly, but seek it he did – an occasion unheard of.

Friar Lawrence, whom Escalus had grown close with after the deaths of Mercutio, Paris and the children of the feuding families, was present during the visit of the physician and remembered the man’s diagnosis well. Migraines, nausea, unhealthy loss of weight and appetite – all those symptoms were familiar to the old physician and spoke of more than simple fatigue; but he could do nothing about them, for there were no wounds to stitch or cauterize and no ulcers to cover with ointments. There were only a few balms and tinctures he could make to give Escalus a respite from pain; he also suggested bloodletting, but stressed it would bring relief merely temporarily, if at all. 

“How long do I have left?” was all Escalus said. 

He refused all treatment upon hearing it would make him sleepy and disoriented. 

“I need my mind to be clear,” he stated impassively, effectively cutting off all the attempts of friar Lawrence and the frightened Valentine to reason with him. “Now more than ever.”

The prince never spoke of his illness again, instead concentrating fully on Valentine’s education, intending to pass on the position of the city’s ruler to him as soon as possible. He stoically weathered through the waves of pain, which continued to grow in intensity; and made a lot of efforts to eat regularly despite the nausea caused by the very thought of food, knowing that his ailing body needed nourishment.

A year went by. The migraines were slowly but surely taking their toll on the prince’s body, taking him from thin to emaciated, painting his hair gray and his skin sickly yellow, and by spring, Escalus could hardly recognize his own reflection. Never before had he felt so helpless: even something as simple as getting out of the bed in the mornings turned into a torture. But Escalus was stubborn, and so he kept up with his usual schedule, working from dusk till dawn, spending hours in his study discussing urgent problems of the city with Valentine and helping him solve them. 

He was rarely seen in public those days, of course; his nephew was fully covering that side of his princely duties. But on those rare days when he felt almost healthy, Escalus would leave the palazzo and venture out into Verona, strolling along the streets; sometimes he would even leave the premises of the city entirely if he was feeling strong enough. During those outings, he carried himself so well that not a single breathing soul was able to discern the degree of his suffering. Yes, he looked weary and aging – but not mortally ill.

Valentine had no idea how his uncle managed to keep such a façade; neither did he approve of his leaving the house, for after each of those outings the prince would then feel much worse. But there was nothing the young man could do: even the terrible illness proved to be unable to extinguish the fire in the prince’s gray eyes and to break his iron will. As before, Escalus had only to frown, and all Valentine’s objections would wilt away before he had time to think.

Autumn came again, bringing bad weather and good health – or at least that was what it looked like, since Escalus had been feeling much better since the rains started. The migraines almost disappeared and would come back only occasionally; benefiting from the unexpected bout of strength, Escalus immediately grew more active and started to go out more often. Valentine was happy beyond measure to see such changes, but he was worried that his uncle, with his penchant for working himself into the ground, would overestimate himself and his condition would worsen again. 

“My wits have not abandoned me yet,” stated Escalus calmly after listening to his nephew’s arguments, and the latter flinched involuntarily under his uncle’s piercing gaze. But the prince turned away immediately, and his face, half-hidden by the shadows, seemed to Valentine full of endless sorrow. 

When Escalus spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible, and his words made the young man’s blood freeze in his veins.

“This relief is a lie, Valentine. I know it is a lie. I know I will die soon. And I do not fear death; but I do fear this,” he touched his head briefly, tapped his finger against his graying temple. “I fear that this… thing, this creature, this illness that dwells in here… that it will claim my mind and turn me into a mindless, brainless ruin of a man.” The prince paused, running a frighteningly thin hand over his tired face. “I do not want to die like a madman, a lunatic, crazed, deranged, devoid of reason; a motionless body that stares into the ceiling with senseless eyes even as it rots away on the bed. I do not want this. As long as my mind is still clear, as long as my legs can support me… As long as I can still do something – do not stop me.” 

Escalus turned back to look at his nephew, and there was something indescribable in his determined gray eyes, something that forced Valentine to swallow down his reply and nod silently. The prince’s gaze softened, and he waved his hand.

“Now go. Do not keep Verona waiting. She needs you now.”

The young man bowed and left, unable to get rid of the terrible feeling that with those words Escalus put his beloved city into his, Valentine’s, care – from that moment on - forever. Hours later, the prince’s quiet voice was still ringing in his ears. “She needs you now.”

That very evening, Escalus left.

***

Riding across the empty piazza, the prince cannot explain what force is tugging him, willing him to go to the distant church in the dead of night, cutting through rain and wind. Then, as a familiar pain fills his head and a ghostly silhouette emerges from the shadows, everything falls into place.

Understanding brings relief; Escalus even is able to smile at some point. Everything that should be said has already been said; but he still finds friar Lawrence’s hand blindly, squeezes it in a feeble attempt to do – what? thank him? reassure? or find reassurance?.. Steady warm fingers wrapped around his wrist are his last anchor to this reality. But the priest’s kind, sad face is slowly fading away, the world is a blur of gray mist; and the only thing the prince can see clearly is the familiar blue gaze of the otherworldly being right next to him. 

“It is time to go, my brave Escalus,” repeats the creature almost affectionately; cold fingers caress his cheek and lower lip, trail down his neck and stop at his collarbone. “Or do you still fear for your city? You do not want to leave Verona still, do you, my noble prince?”

This reminds Escalus of their long conversations at the chessboard. He had at least an illusion of equality back then – unlike this time.

“Verona…” the prince whispers. To friar Lawrence his words probably sound like the continuation of his previous phrase; but he cannot be sure of it. He is not even sure if he is really speaking aloud or merely thinking of speaking; not that it matters.

Nothing matters anymore.

“Verona will live on without me, like she did before me,” finishes Escalus with an effort and is suddenly aware that it is indeed so. His city is in good hands, he has made sure of it himself; and the realization feels like the whole world has fallen off his weary shoulders. 

He sighs, relieved, and closes his eyes, letting quiet serenity engulf him. He has never known peace before; but now – for the first time in his life – he has nothing to worry about. For the first time in his life nothing depends on him.

The first… and the last.

Escalus meets the icy touch of Death’s lips with a smile.


End file.
